


Until such time comes

by Lavender_Seaglass



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Female Mage Hawke - Freeform, Red Templars, Tragedy, Tranquil Hawke, Tranquility, but only if it has a good/okay ending, divergent from Inquisition canon after reaching Skyhold, novella length
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-28
Packaged: 2018-05-07 13:26:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5458055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lavender_Seaglass/pseuds/Lavender_Seaglass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Hawke hadn't reached Skyhold on her own, there's only one thing that could have meant: something extraordinary had happened. And, as everyone finds out, it had.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i

**Author's Note:**

> as proof that this isn't just mindless sad, i decided to give this fic a kind of nested structure, so there will be two timelines, sort of, with most of the focus being on Fenris past the first chapter at least until hawke 'returns'. this first chapter is set in the relative future some time after hawke's tranquility is cured. i don't want to give away more than that, though! i have been very interested in the implications of tranquility and its relationship to the veil since trespasser so i am excited to finally be getting some of these ideas down. as for the characters, i know they have been tortured enough but! they end up pretty well off anyway and at least hawke can't die in the fade if she doesn't get to skyhold in the manner she was expected.

Today the glacier is faintly golden, like its releasing captured traces of dusks and dawns. It seems possible to her. Stranger things have happened; once, when she was young and the twins even younger, they and their father had trekked out to see some ancient ruins left in another glacier's wake. She wasn't sure if the monstrous thing had carried these massive stones and blocks of metal along or simply dug them back out of the earth where the empire had left them. Even now, as they picked at its refuse, the glacier was advancing away, grinding ever forwards, leaving behind sluices that in time could slice through anything. She remembers that beast of tortured ice and snow as both deeply blue and glaringly white; the body below was inconceivably large and the skin above was deceivingly soft. She had been captivated by this great natural force wreaking its violence while her father had looked for evidence of once-known magic.

This glacier, the one she can see now, is much smaller, and she hasn't been in this part of the country long enough to actually say that she's seen it move. As such this glacier has hardly had the time to lure her properly in, let alone enough to reveal even a single of its manifold mysteries to her. It has so far only changed the colours it casts out depending on its mood and the light of a particular day. If this glacier were capable of holding occasionally onto sunlight, she wouldn't be surprised. And she's sure she could find proof of such an ability, because eventually such residue would be released, just as all things are, even that which has remained hidden in its mass or icy heart for Ages.

She thinks, presently, this rich but gauzy hue it's giving off could be from the dawn of this very day. It was after all a very emotional sunrise for her today, more stirring than one has been for in some time. Even Fenris had quickened this morning. Though both their bodies were beneath layers of furs and knitted woollen blankets, his hand had come to circle around her waist and beckon her back towards sleep. He knows, of course, that she's always up so early these days. But something of the routine luminous beauty she had witnessed and absorbed had refracted off of her as restlessness, as an irregular energy or an unsettling halo, something rousing enough that it had drawn him to her through the heavy veil of peaceful sleep.

And she had responded to him. The shades and grey tones were being banished from their room just then, dark was remitting to light, but still she came closer to him for shelter and to offer up her own dear body heat and curves. An hour remained until they actually had to be up.

Now the sun is nearly at its daily zenith as she walks over muddy ground. She can see the indigo-grey mountain where the glacier is perched because it lays many miles beyond the woods bordering their property. She's headed towards the woods to gather kindling—it's spring now, but this task is definitely worth her time. Woodpiles are now running low, and in spite of an initial robust thaw earlier in the season, a chill has been lingering in the shadows and in the mornings, a partial winter stillness yet pervades.

Tietjens, her mabari, has noticed some of the effects of this. There aren't as many birds around as he remembers being able to harass in his youth. He still bounds after flocks foolish to try their luck scavenging in his family's field, but—and even though he's older too so it should be easier to achieve this state—there just aren't enough to chase into the throes of breathlessness. Several times he has sat on his haunches and looked after birds he has successfully scared off, and given what Hawke has thought of as a plaintive riot of barking beseeching them to come back—please, please, how else am I to get my pleasure and purpose? Or something like that. She was surely making his canine behaviour much poignant thinking about it like this, and she knows that she's more prone to such silliness these days. She's aware that her own small sentiments are likely to overwhelm her. Though—for which she is grateful—she's not suffering anywhere near what she faced at her own hands when she first was restored to herself.

As she draws closer to the thickening trees she casts her eyes downwards. Looking upwards for so long can be dizzying, and right here is where she needs to start paying attention for roots and rocks and unexpected holes. This land is familiar, though not quite familiar enough. The winter isn't so far behind them that she has had the chance to discover everything that was concealed beneath the snow.

Also, the trodden-path has ended. She and Fenris plan to extend a small gravel trail to and around the edges of what is theirs and will, one day, when they have the opportunity amongst all the other things they must attend to keep themselves going in their life together: trips to and from town, tending the genteel animals that have now joined them, helping their neighbours repair a collapsed barn, evenings reading, and regular attendance at the local chantry. They go together, hand in hand, to pray their private prayers in a place where someone who's listening might have a better chance of hearing them, kneeling amidst stone and flame and other aching souls as they are, and more or less expressing their personal thanks when they come together again and brush bodies when sliding back into the pews. Fenris sometimes guides her in before him with his palm on her back and his fingers splayed—and Hawke doesn't know what he's thinking as he does this, but she thinks of what she once heard a wise woman say to someone that was not her, that Andraste did not volunteer for the fire. Hawke shakes under him at these times because she notices it's not when he should be touching her, because she realises he shouldn't have his hand on her in such a way in these kinds of surroundings. Somewhere that's sacred and supposedly sanctified with mosaic windows that blaze like gems when inflamed by the sun isn't meant for mortal displays.

But never, no matter where they are, has she said to him, wait till a better time. Not for a lot reasons.

 

.

 

That morning as he tended the hearth and she cleared the table of breakfast, she had turned to him to share a memory that had returned to her recently. She said that she could probably bake a cake with their remaining apples later that day if he wouldn't mind the very real possibility of a failed first attempt. She raised the idea that maybe if it wasn't too bad for him there might even be a second, or more, such treat to come his way.

He smiled, and asked if it was her mother's recipe.

No, her father's. It was Fereldan.

So it was fitting, he remarked while she nodded in confirmation, coming to sit nearby for a moment as she dried her calloused hands on the dingy cloth apron tied about her waist. It was a heart-wrenchingly peasant and commonplace gesture. One which even now, after all these weeks he had had to get over it, she thought he seemed ready to remark on when he saw it. He often looked a bit like that, as if on the verge of drawing attention to his own unexpected sensibilities for whimsicality, but just as frequently he apparently thought the better of it and smiled at her to confirm for her she was probably right in her estimation of his foolishness. He was soft, even dragons are vulnerable on the inside. Though she had never seen a dragon redden like him.

He didn't draw her nearer to him but leant in close. She said, will you be working on the fence today?

He nodded. He was learning that he was a much better carpenter than anyone, including himself, would have imagined, for all that his steely sinews could efficiently cut and carve elsewhere. He was making real progress in constructing a functional and attractive hip-high wall to replace the demarcating stone piles that had been collapsing since this farm's last occupants vanished into chaos.

Good, she said, and leant forward herself because she was about to confide something only he could appreciate with his understanding of the context. She was, she said, going to muck out the shed then see if she couldn't find some kindling laying about in their woods.

What about the story from her childhood? She hadn't told it to him but already he had heard a version of it told by a parent to a child in a neighbour's home—something would happen if you ventured just one step into the woods. You would be doomed when you heard a voice calling you. Once the child gave into the voice luring him in, once he gave into the vanity of believing himself special and took that one step past the boundary his parents had set for his protection, he was done. Absolutely gone and irretrievable.

Shrugging, a glint of humour in her eye, she had said she wouldn't bother going if she heard voices. Her sanity already has enough to contend with.

 

.

 

The trees are closing in around her, their number increasing as the spaces between are diminishing. Although the sensual luxuriance of full bloom is for most trees still many weeks away, there are enough leaves to fill out a lot of the gnarled latticework of woven and tangled branches she passes under, for which she is thankful, she was getting tired of seeing thousands of bared branches like the contents of an exposed mass grave. The light that filters through has a muted quality however. Not of refreshing shade, or even an added hue of vernal green. It's just cold. Darkness has pooled between trees and is collecting in wells that waft around her as licks of chill as she passes, like the tongues of an invisible mist, like something pawing after her. At some point she notices her goose pimples and draws her cloak tighter around her lightly armoured body. She continues, and underfoot only rarely does a twig or leaf crunch. The melted snow has left the ground sodden and the undergrowth black and bloated. There are even a few banks of snow which she finds and can make out not because of their whiteness, but because of the unnaturally loud crush they make as she and her dog tread over them.

A quarter or an hour passes before she decides that she won't find anything out here fit to burn. That means that there will be more for the next winter, at least; she will be back out here later in the season with a bigger basket and maybe Fenris or one of their new friends along for company. They will be able to stay out later and will not need to wear cloaks and their laughter will ring out merrily under a quivering canopy of green and silver leaves gently swayed by a passing breeze. She'll be happier then.

Overhead a clutch of birds call to each other, and, as she turns, she wonders if they are communicating something about her. Maybe her location or her movements, that she is not prey or that she has not offered offence to them yet. She hears them and doesn't see them, instead focussing on picking out the trial she made on her way here. It shouldn't be too hard. Already she can discern several distinct footprints, marked out in thoroughly rotten organic detritus that easy holds the shape she has lately imposed upon it. As she goes along she's still on the lookout for drier areas that may contain what she needs. She's only vaguely aware of the distant but consistent drone of a river. Then, a gust of air disturbs the trees and shattered rays of light scatter around her; pausing, between steps, she looks behind her, and that's when she sees that something is there.

Not far away, not close enough to be sure in which direction it's moving, she sees a mass shambling amongst the trees. Immediately a hot current comes alive within her—it has been here all along, of course, for it's just as vital a part of her as her unconscious heartbeat or expanding and contracting lungs or the crucial dilation of her eyes. But now it flares with purpose. Her hair stands on all its ends, her spine strikes straight, and her skin is close to crackling as it collects static charges in her pores. Her flowing blood is liquescent lightning, her thudding heart is thunder, the ground tremors as it anticipates its sundering before her feet.

But she breathes—and calms herself. The squall looms but doesn't break quite yet, she crouches down behind a fallen tree trunk with a flourish towards Tietjins to indicate he's to join her, not pursue until she knows what to do. She's not sure what the next move will be. She has to observe.

Hawke's knees are sinking into the ground. Carefully, she slips one gloved hand onto the log to test how much sound it might make in protest, to gauge how much trust she can put in its deteriorated integrity. It's somewhat soft though not nearly mushy, it's probably been down for less than half a year, and, if she sidles up half a metre, there's a place for her to rest her body for support between the base of a broken-off branch and a stretch of bark relatively free of white and yellow moss. She presses up against the wood fully now, leaning with her thigh and side till the rugged texture, ridged and rigid like a dragon, is insinuating itself through the layers of her clothing into her sparking skin.

Now she lays her head down and can see over the top of the log. The thing doesn't move for several seconds. Then, a faint jitter rips through it and gives her the idea that that's a human shoulder she's seeing jutting out at an obscene angle—which hardly makes sense, she cannot imagine what the other lumps and long protrusions from what must be its back could be. No broken bones are so thick or straight. The thing judders again and she sees a faint glinting of light that suggests silver armour, once burnished to a brilliance to rival that of the sun, now dented and dull and no longer possessing even a hint of hauteur the owner may once have claimed.

Here's a templar in her patch of the woods. And a Red one at that—the eyes flash wicked sickly crimson like they've caught the scent of her sumptuous mage's blood. They could glow with the neon lust with which he would hunt and, undoubtedly, savage her. She understands with a sprawling disgust that the unnatural shapes are chunks of blighted lyrium sprouting from his back. Even here her old actions follow—the nightmare isn't over, not quite yet. The thing is moving like it doesn't have any legs.

She tries not to panic. She really truly does.

Besides her, her mabari whines, then growls, and now she's stuck because he has given away their position in his insistence to protect her. Flight or fight, she has to make her decision now. Her muzzled electricity stings at her nerves and crowds her stomach like crazed butterflies and the vulnerable areas around her neck and under her arms are quickly becoming slick with sweat. She has no staff with her to focus her magic. Tietjins growls, again, eyes alert with a hunter's intelligence as he bears his curved teeth that glow in the gloom.

She's no nearer a choice for action when something finally happens for her. From not so very far away, she hears her name called. It carries like a bird of prey's call, a threat to all who hear it, for all those whom the caller is not dear. His voice is strong and full even carried over a distance. So much so that the strength thrums in her head and she's more substantial than she was a second ago.

She does not call back. She simply whistles the signal and bolts because now Fenris knows he's to come and meet her.

 

.

 

With her dog following tightly on her heels Hawke knows she clears the boundary of what she would call the woods because the sun bursts hotly onto her flustered face. She risks looking up to judge how far she has come. Her arms rise and fall as she runs, her fingers are curled into her clammy palms, and she has to look down before she stumbles over her feet or a stone or an errant branch, but she's safe soon enough. Fenris effectively pulls her from her flight and crushes her against him even as he checks that all is immediately clear over her shoulder. She secures her arms around him and a glittering barrier of light is thrown up around them. As she pants—air cutting through her throat like swallowed shards of broken glass—the density of her barrier wavers until it suddenly settles into a placid sphere of magic that overlays faint whorls and whirls on the world beyond its safety.

Once he confirms that they at least have a moment he steps them around so that his body is between her and where she has fled from—and she sees dimly that the glacier has blushed a gradient of roses: white, yellow, pink, red, purple. He looks at her like she's been delivered to him miraculously, like a body rising whole and unburnt from a pyre, or like a person descending in a fit of mercy from a perch at the Maker's side to grace him with their touch and benediction.

But for the frenetic energy in his eyes his hold is now suddenly tender as if handling a newborn life placed purposefully into his care. Her eyes, her cheeks, her shoulders, her sides, her elbows—he touches it all with a sweep of his hands over her. Hawke kisses him, hard, shoving her entire self against him as proof and show of her affirmation of life, insisting until she has to step to keep her balance.

And, when she sways as a consequence, he secures a hand on either side of her face and hooks his thumbs behind her ears and presses into the points that hold the tension around her jaw.

'A templar—' she begins, clutching to his brown tunic with bent fingers, 'there was a templar who doesn't know he's not welcome.'

'How far away?'

'Not very.' Her heels dig into the dirt and her eyes flit upwards as she attempts to calculate a very rough figure, trying to keep the invader's relentless red gaze from infiltrating her mind. 'And there's not much of him left, I think. He was far gone to the corruption.'

Fenris nods, once. He looks over her shoulder again and Tietjins, his head butting against her hip, looks too. 'Much of a threat?'

Leaning in, she shakes her head and rests her forehead against his cheek while she feels him slip his hold down around her waist. With a short exhale she blows one of his longer strands of hair out of her nose so she doesn't end up sneezing; the smoothness of his skin barely registers against her scarred and furrowed brow. Then, because she is safe, Hawke's breath hitches and she shudders out the anxiety from underneath her skin—it's a dark mass, a suffusing dread, has tendrils that can creep, but it doesn't have to be any more meaningful than a puff of steam rising after a burst of summer rain as long as she can let it go.

Here, engulfed by him, she can. She can expel her terrors.

'No,' she says, and shifts so that she may thread her fingers through to the ends of his hair. She's recently seen them brushing against the wings of his shoulder blades. Shifting again she pulls away, faces the same direction as him, and leans back into the length of his forearm he has kept tightly placed against the small of her back. 'No, he wasn't. But he should be killed anyway, as a mercy.'

'Should I?'

'No, Fenris. Let me take care of this. Okay?'

'Okay.'

He takes her in hand, capable as she is, and Hawke takes her first step forward. Her barrier around them ripples away now that they are walking together towards this resolution. This is how it will be for them as long as they have a say about it. Together, standing side by side, decisively facing what's threatening them and could separate their pair. As for the Templars, there's not so much to be said. Their days are numbered—those who remain are just the ones who have yet to die. Hawke is kind, but she finds comfort in this. Fenris, too, on her bad days.

 

**...**


	2. ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris makes it to Ferelden and travels some of the distance he must go.

Fenris didn't take the time to wipe the gristle and bone from his face. There really was no point in bothering. Right away he snapped back into the fray, righting himself to drive the bulk of his blade at an angle into the torso of the man he was just then fighting with. The man wouldn't be able to free himself unless he could pull the blade out of the ground and of himself, or, because he didn't want to die skewered by savage metal, he would have to decide to gather the courage it would take to take to finish the job to release by ramming in the hilt and all through his stomach. By the time that possibility could occur to him however he would be long dead. As for the man rushing him next, Fenris flicked an iron dagger out of his jerkin and buried it into the wrinkled throat of his ill-fated attacker. Fenris gave it a twist and pushed the man bodily off of him.

The slaver gave an indignant rasp, and then died. He, of course, had had bad breath, not to mention a set of teeth only a flash of which had been enough to give an impression of profound disgust, and Fenris cursed him for this as he kicked the corpse away from the dignity of resting at his feet. He didn't think about retrieving the dagger; it wasn't his anyway, and he didn't see that he needed to be bled on anymore than was strictly necessary by such baleful scum. Already he had gore spattered on, and dripping from, the cool silver curve of his breastplate.

One or two slavers were left. They tried to flee, but he only went after them once he had retrieved his sword from the belly it was piercing. He flung off the viscera and it made a satisfying _whack_ as it slapped onto the ground and across a part of the cavern wall. Only barely did he notice the biting ferrous tang quickly blooming within the confines of the place. The light was poor and low, only a handful of torches had been lit, perhaps to preserve fuel or to conceal their presence with their living cargo. In this limited light the coagulating blood appeared like patches of blackish mould where it was dripping down the walls and thinning out and therefore more susceptible to drying in the rank air.

Fenris wondered briefly if they, the slavers who remained, knew that they had gone the wrong way, that the exit was in the absolutely opposite direction, but then he shrugged and wondered instead if it would matter what wall in particular they were running themselves into. Only if some stragglers from the freed slaves hadn't made it out from those stretches of the caverns yet did it make a difference. He might have to kill the last of their captors in front of them.

Not that that mattered, really. He wasn't going to spare these monsters just because their victims would have to watch the conclusion of his slaughter. It had never stopped him before.

And, for the moment, his only concern was with being thorough in this raid. He had to do his best to rout every last one of them, he wasn't sure when he'd be back, or if ever. He had been called from Kirkwall at last. The two letters and note that said as much sat securely, drily, folded into an inner pocket Leandra Amell had once sewn into his tunic under the false impression that he had things for which he would want safe-keeping. Obviously her daughter had shared him with her. He couldn't be sure how much Hawke had told her mother about him, though there at least were some signs that she had concealed the less savoury things about him that her parent didn't need to know. Like how bare his existence was.

.

_To the elf—_

_I would say I hope you're keeping well but then I know you and I'm not such a fool as to think you aren't anything other than capable of that. See, I'm not a total ass! Surely even you can agree with that. I am sure the weather is just as awful as ever, the people suffering just as much, and the politicians bickering like they aren't standing amidst ruins. Oh, how I miss Kirkwall!_

_I'm sure you're not reading this for what some would call my bullshit, however, so I will do us both a favour and get to the point you've probably already skimmed this letter for: Hawke. I know where Hawke is. She's on her way to Skyhold._

_Yes, because I asked her to. No, not because I wanted to. Listen, I'm just as upset about it as you are, and, between you and me, I do in fact deserve every curse you're bringing down upon my head right about now. But I have to tell you that I didn't, in the end, have any other choice to make. Eventually the Inquisition would have found her if they wanted to. Though it is true that many of those in charge around here aren't as keen on locating her anymore, the reach and influence of this group is growing everyday despite any efforts on the part of Corypheus and his forces._

_But here's where Hawke comes in. You, I am sure, also recognise that name. That nasty ancient magister we thought we had defeated? Well. Apparently some things don't stay dead even when they have been put down by the Champion and her trusty companions. Even this dwarf failed._

_The short of it is that none of us know how he survived. We only know that he did. Hawke has been looking into it now in addition to what she set out to investigate. I am sure she discussed the latter issue at some length with you before leaving. It seems that this Corypheus character is connected to whatever trouble has been brewing in Warden ranks for some time now. Have you noticed there are fewer of them than ever?_

_She's been in further contact with that Grey Warden Alistair whom you may remember running across the night that Hawke duelled the Arishok. I think even then he said that the Wardens were up to something, something that was so important they couldn't be bothered to help any of Kirkwall's citizens. It also seems that whatever has been up with the Wardens is somehow connected with the red lyrium we saw Meredith turn into at the Gallows; Hawke's sure there's a connection, and the experiments I have had conducted on the lyrium idol fragment recovered from my brother raised some interesting, and thoroughly weird, questions. The few answers it has yielded are of course even weirder._

_Anyway, the best I can offer otherwise is speculation. I know that you're not exactly fond of that, so I think it's best to wrap up here until I can offer something that's more concrete. The important thing is that Hawke is alive and well. And, honestly, I think that once she's with the Inquisition she will be in one of the safer places in the world right now, what with an ancient Tevinter magister and his doomsday cult running rampant, not to mention his Red Templars, and what's left of the rebel mages who rejected an alliance with the Inquisition. Their loss. As long as those templars are loose and there are no Circles to protect them it isn't exactly safe for mages right now._

_But don't worry about Hawke. She isn't just any mage._

_As I am sure you know._

_Regardless, take care of yourself._

 

_Your friend,_

_Varric Tethras_

_._

At first Fenris had wanted to include in his response to Varric that he was no longer in Kirkwall. He was _around_ in the area, of course, he was taking whatever work he could find and most jobs would lead easily enough from one to another, his reputation and life spreading mouth-to-mouth, and at least he could trust that he probably wouldn't be hired on by some slavers in this way. Decent company tended to attract like. He only worked for mercenaries and the occasional group who really were transporting refugees to a better life. Something which was, he would say even when not in his cups, to be had almost anywhere other than here. The war's impact could hardly be accounted for when judging another place's suitability for resettlement. The conflict was felt to some degree nearly everywhere, though nearly any place that wasn't Kirkwall had had a more natural and healthy equilibrium of mages and templars before the Circles fell, so that the effects of the mage and templar conflict were, more or less, less keenly felt any place that wasn't Kirkwall.

And, anyway, by now the Inquisition had quelled most of that violence. The troubles that now plagued Kirkwall were much more complicated, much more older, than this current iteration of the struggle. There were things that had seeped into the stone and slowly eroded away the very foundations of the city, as they all were now finding out, everyone from the simpering nobles who thought they could placate citizens like their family dogs, to the lowliest of people in Darktown who saw neither an opportunity to get away nor a way to move forward. The results of self-reflection for the city were still many years off. Trauma of the past decade still trembled in even the busiest of streets at high noon.

Varric invariably knew all of this already, just as he surely would know Fenris as a liar if Fenris bothered to try and argue that, no, he really wasn't staying in Kirkwall, he was no longer a resident, and technically had never been one because squatters aren't conferred that kind of status, or, what a laugh, honour. Even now Fenris didn't think he would actually be given this distinction, being called a proper citizen, though he finally had taken up some of the work Varric had once suggested to him back when his presence had been felt more faintly than a shadow.

But, ah, here would be one of Varric's points—what, then, was Fenris' broody shadow doing being cast at all upon Kirkwall's rubble if the man himself wasn't stalking about? Even in the stories some ghosts casts shadows. And some phantoms, and the occasional spectre. Not that it mattered, however, as Fenris was plainly none of these things, he was very much alive, spotted sometimes coming and going from a certain estate belonging to a notorious pariah apostate.

Varric could write back something witty and incisive and irritatingly true about this, like that fools rush in, or that it's unfortunate that some just don't know how to cover their trail from the prying eyes of predators.

Fenris scrapped that part of his letter even before he was sure whether or not he wanted to go through with writing a response to Varric. He was annoyed, but the little traces of familiar tension, the pinching in the front of his forehead, the compulsion he had to utter the word _dwarf_ , gave him a rush of weirdly warm feelings that uplifted him for several days. As for Hawke he wasn't worried, not yet, he wouldn't disrespect her that much so quickly. More accurately, Varric's first letter didn't arouse in him any more anxiety than what he was already suffering throughout his days, and especially at the corners of them: when he twitched his head in battle expecting to see her, when he rolled over and there was no-one there, or he when woke up from a nightmare to find that it was true, just as he feared, she was actually half of Thedas away from him.

That first letter was to offer him information to allay his fears. It was a caring gesture from a friend who was concerned about his well-being, from a friend who, even though he said otherwise, probably knew how to take better care of Fenris than Fenris himself did. It was, however, not a summons, nor an invitation to change his current course. He accepted the information and continued on with what his life was then. And he continued to do so, until the next two messages came.

.

_To the elf—_

_Hey there, how are you, my friend? I received your letter and let me say, your handwriting has improved remarkably. Did you have a farmer write it for you? Or perhaps you hired a scribe? In any case, I have to say that being on the road improves you. Though, if this improvement is in any way beyond a new-found precision in your penmanship, I'm sure I couldn't guess. It could also be that you've just had more practise._

_To get to the point: no, Hawke isn't here yet. But soon, my friend. Take heart—this is Hawke we are talking about after all! Knowing her she probably got sidetracked into saving a coven of hedge mages who are working on a cure for Blight. I'm sure if it were anything more major than that, she would have written me. Or let me know some other way. She's a smart and capable woman who knows her way around a lot of things. Okay, maybe she knows her way_ into _trouble best of all but she has survived much worse than a little trip. She's also on her own so her chances of being recognised or calling attention to herself are lower._

_If it takes her too much longer, I may have Leliana look into it. She knew immediately when I threw out a veiled reference to Hawke as 'one of my contacts'. The Seeker, keen as she is, doesn't expect yet that I may have lied about knowing the location of our certain mutual friend._

_Though at the moment I'm not exactly lying since I don't know her_ exact _location, I'm sure Hawke will show up and make a liar out of me soon enough._

 

_Your friend,_

_Varric Tethras_

.

The ship which carried Fenris to Ferelden arrived in Gwaren after two weeks of was, what he was told, remarkably easily sailing. It seemed to him a joke, unsurprisingly one at his expense—he had spent the entire trip white and plastered to either the wall or the floor or a beam, whatever it was that would presently hold his bilious trembling form as it swished between a fragile sleep, a thin consciousness, or a fierce retching that at least mostly spared him from having to use the onboard lavatory facilities in a way that would involve him having to support himself on openly mutinous legs. He spent thirteen days in that hold. When he emerged to the sun and the sight of a new most southerly shore, he resolved not to hate Ferelden right from the start. He was about to step foot on this land that was the same land on which she now tread, and which she had also lived some of the best years of her life.

Truly, he wanted to give it a chance.

And then a gust of Fereldan wind kicked up and the smell of the fish market assailed him. Gripping onto the railing, he spent a quarter of an hour vomiting whatever was left of him, dazzled to dizziness as the morning sun inflamed the turbulent horizon and the crests of waves closer to him. Finally he managed to master himself. There wasn't much remaining, he felt two kilos lighter, and dehydration was dulling his senses, but he came up to his full height and gave Ferelden the long good look it deserved.

Beautiful, he concluded, for himself. It was exactly as she had described and he had anticipated, and yet it was also real, which is what ultimately gave it this high quality in his mind. Here was a real place where he could find what he was looking for. Provided he looked for it, and he had every intention of putting all of his effort into this endeavour.

Only later would he realise that this was the same port from which the Hawke family and friend had departed over ten years ago.

.

The first thing Fenris did when properly on land was to go shopping. He bought for himself not much, but they were an essential few things which he hadn't bothered to buy in Kirkwall because he was sure he would get better prices here, and because he wanted to save himself the trouble of having to keep track of it on the sea-faring part of his journey. Maybe, if he had been able to take a ride with Isabela he could have brought everything he needed, but _she_ was also half a world away and embroiled in something that seemed to him more trouble than it was worth. Probably it was. Sometimes, for a woman like her, excitement was its own kind of profit. As for him, he didn't really care for either of the two, not enough to be drawn one way or another. The business of staying alive seemed to him plenty to occupy his time.

What Fenris bought were things he imagined he might need while travelling through Ferelden: a map that was actually good, a tent for nights when he couldn't find a town or pushed past a tavern, a hat to capture heat and conceal his ears, though he had to spend some time trying to find one that wasn't scratchy against his sensitive ears, ultimately asking another elf he came across for some advice in this matter, a grey cloak of middling quality that seemed appropriate as cover for a refugee, and, though he wished to hold out, he deferred to his better judgement and purchased a pair of shoes. This took him an hour and left him feeling hot and vaguely shameful, a little sweaty under the arms, like he had thoroughly been had by the cobbler in the worst of non-sexual ways. Apparently an elf with any kind of markings buying shoes was suspicious—or at least interesting enough to entice some passersby to linger—because it could only mean that the elf was an ex-Dalish with some tale of woe to share.

Why had he run away, the cobbler wanted to know, though he only asked this via indirect questions: what does Fenris think of civilisation, is he looking for work on a farm, it is true that the Dalish get their sugar through theft, has he ever had fish properly cooked?

When fish were brought up, Fenris, failing to keep from flushing, just got whatever he was trying on then, made his purchase with exchanging as few words as possible, and left without a second to spare. It was true at least that he needed to get going for the sun was now sailing through a crisp sky, one clear of even haze, one deepingly blue as noon fast approached. He wanted to make good or better time and had already picked out a village he could reach if he travelled efficiently. To this end he shoved the shoes into his pack along with all his other new acquirements and set off to the west. There was no snow on the ground yet.

Along his way Fenris encountered traffic in either direction, both to and _from_  the port city. This was surprising to him for he had imagined that there would be more refugees looking for either shelter or a means to flee from turmoil. As the day wore on he observed those whom he passed and formed what he thought must be a more accurate notion of what exactly was happening in Ferelden. To be sure there were refugees. Carts piled with belongings, or those, who were not so lucky, who had left in haste with only their lives and the clothes on their backs now being worn to rags as they drifted towards a vague promise of something better than unendless walking.

He also saw every other kind of person you'd expect to be on the road in times when proper commerce could thrive: merchants, farmers, mercenaries, and artisans, a travelling troupe, a bard, and a shifty personage or two looking for opportunities. And this was what he really hadn't expected—this profusion of normal life. How could it be possible, in light of the multiple crises crippling the country? There was certainly no civil war here as there was in Orlais, but—but a lot of things. What of the ancient magister, what of the Red Templars, what of the return of dragons, what of the rifts in the fabric of the Veil pitilessly spilling parades of demons out of the Fade?

The order he saw not complete, but it in no way did it resemble the chaos he realised he had expected. Partially, even though he knew better, he had presumed that everywhere was wrecked like Kirkwall—and as wretched as it. But he had to admit that it only made sense other places would recover faster than the epicentre, especially if they had not been severely afflicted by compounding conditions. It helped, too, that years had passed since these people had last faced an invasion of a political kind.

As for the demons that were descending upon them—well, that was what the soldiers were for. All of them impactfully proud to be bearing the sigil embossed on the armour on their chest. Fenris saw the Inquisition's symbol as the templars' sword covered by the wisdom and the purity of a Seeker's cause—an open eye, ready to see and know the truth before acting righteously. Something which, for what would have been everyone's sake back then, the templars definitely could have used back in Kirkwall. And, though Fenris hadn't completely written off the good the templar Order could do, he thought it was too bad that a truly uncorrupted vision was evidently too fantastical to ever exist outside of a truly hallowed and exacting institution, not knowing that by then even the vast majority of the Seekers had faltered.

But here was a new institution out in force: The Inquisition. He was sceptical, at first, not sure what to make of their peaceful presence on the road beyond a vague idea that a preserved economy was probably more that was positive more than negative. Commerce wasn't inherently so, but here, in Ferelden, trade was the wholesome heart and blood that gave life to the country, it was not an ailing lifeline preserving the mordant wreckage of an empire. So that was something to say for it.

Eventually, he got an idea of what the Inquisition was about, too. He saw some of their soldiers unquestionably protect a group of haggard refugees not at all explicitly under their care—the soldiers simply moved to aid when a circling predator cast his shadow of potential strike over them, poising himself to steal from a delicate seeming young woman at the back of the group. And the soldiers didn't kill the would-be thief. They took him into custody and announced they would be delivering him to the nearest prison, they weren't enforcing any laws or judgements besides those of which the Ferelden people had chosen.

So. Maybe not all citizens, these soldiers, but each and every one of them made a show of doing their duty. Fenris thought that this was generally a good thing. Their armour plates burnished, their good posture making rods of their spines, the sun shining over them, they carried away the thief to a place where he would have to face his just reward as determined by the people's will. While he knew, and understood, that thievery was often fuelled solely by fatal deprivation and a deficit of others resorts, Fenris couldn't for the life of him imagine what those refugees had had to steal. What could the thief have hoped to gain? A thrill?

Several hours after dusk had fallen and the shadows had swollen to properly swallow everything, Fenris made it to his destination. He exchanged some sovereigns for a decent bed and a hearty meal—highway robbery, maybe, but he was close to the point by then where he would lie in the dirt if it meant he could stuff himself. He was famished. For two weeks he hadn't consumed anything that stayed in him for more than an hour, hardly long enough to be digested, and he also hadn't had the confidence earlier today try anything more than constant sips of sweetened water he had been taking while walking. Along the way his hunger had been sparked, stoked, flaring in the evening, then threatening to consume him in a way that was almost shameful. How easily his body had forgotten the pangs and lessons it had learnt during his lifetime as a life. What should have just been a yearning for sustenance shouldn't have come so close to overwhelming him when he got a mere sniff of something cooking. So a part of him wanted to wait before sitting down to his dinner. He would deserve it. It would be something of a punishment, but also a way to start bracing himself for the need to suppress his hunger, it was possible that in some of the days to come he wouldn't have ready access to food—because he needed to move quickly, he wanted to get to his destination as soon as possible. But, for the same reason, he would need to devour as much as he could; he needed to restore his vigour.

It was hard enough keeping the food down, even harder to pace himself like he knew he must. As for the food itself it was magnificent in its munificence—an entire succulent fowl, bread that was soft, not hard, still crumbly and suffused with warmth from its time in the oven. What luxury, what decadence, to sink his teeth into a loaf that had been baked after the morning! And there were apples, refreshing and luminously sweet as the very ones the Prophet herself had renewed herself with in the blessed orchard of Ghislain.

And, though very much devoted to the task of filling himself up, Fenris was not unaware of those who surrounded him. He couldn't claim any especial affinity or expertise of experience with Fereldan taverns, but he had frequented the Hanged Man, in his time, with good company, and he was familiar enough with body language he could read the nuances of the scene as well as any regular. Those who were just passing through were mainly crowded—or regulated—to a corner not too far from him. He was seated amongst others who were overnighting, and was located conveniently close to the kitchen and the bar, where the staff would see when he might be in need of supplemental material to consume. Whenever his glass was empty they materialised by his side to refill it until he, judging that he had consumed half a bottle, held his hand up and offered to buy outright the rest of the port. He had in mind the idea of taking it to his room and possibly on the road. That was something he'd forgotten to buy—a strong wine to swig from.

They offered to deliver it to his room for later.

Well enough. As he began to feel full a tensely wound drama was beginning to unwind. He didn't expect a complete unravelling, but it would be unpleasant to see the frayed threads coming loose. Still, he wasn't ready to move, not quite yet.

Across the room was a small group of apostates who were travelling together. He had them figured as mages by a few of their evident tells: their staves, obviously, not held in hand but not that far away either, leant against the dirty wall and within reach after a single step, as well as the cautious way in which they carried themselves, watching their backs like they were surprised to see anything but solid stone and watchful templars waiting behind them. In addition to these former-Circle mages, there was amongst them a Dalish man and his two children.

One, or both, of the children had magic. This was part of the problem, though not the cause of it. What really was at issue was whether or not he and his children were welcome to keep travelling them. Probably not, if things continued the way in which they were. Fenris saw one of the mages shape the word 'burden' with dried but plump lips, then the Dalish man flinch and recoil and come back to defend his family. No, no, did they not care about what would happen if they forsook him now?

Fenris scoffed into his cup and looked down at what remained of his meal. The bones and little puddle of grease gave a bit of bulge, a slight wavy little wiggle, because, as he realised, he was drunk enough that he was ready to go to sleep. Mages, caring about anything? He could laugh at the very thought.

Well. Some of them did. Some of them cared a lot. Just for a moment—he felt a breath on his neck, the ghost of fingers caressing his skull, a flicker of lasting love.

He sat there and pushed away his dishes and cutlery, wood rasping against wood, and then tapped on the table, twice, before setting his elbows on the surface and leaning into his hands. What they were arguing about was not his problem. Not in any way. Nor was the outcome. However, they weren't the only people whom he had had noticed in the tavern.

There was a group of ex-templars occasionally looking the apostates' way, with eyes that lingered for seconds on the children. When the mages left, so did they, not so very long after.

.

He was sleeping, then he was awake. Though not completely lucid, yet. Hours had passed since he had bedded down and now the bright white light of the moon spilt into his weary eyes. He rolled over and reached out.

But she was not there. Which was by her choice.

.

Back when they can't say yet that they're truly familiar, Fenris has lost something that's dear to him. She doesn't know that it is, or why it is, and there's no way that she could, he has yet to share this vital and shameful and pivotal part of his story with her.

He also doesn't know yet that he will share it. He trusts her, that's true, but not to the extent that he will come to. He never expects to have someone so thoroughly implicated in his life that he would tell them about the friends he once had and slaughtered.

The thing that he loses—that is taken from him—is something that was given to him by a Fog Warrior who was one of the first people outside of Tevinter to learn his name. This whetstone was one of the few things he had always kept on his person since his freedom, and it was one of the few things he had to keep on him in the first place. Even after Danarius had to leave him behind in Seheron the idea of accumulating possessions had had no appeal for him. Amongst the people he was living with then anything superfluous was besides the point. Also, more than anything physical which could be catalogued and hoarded, he was focussed at that time on collecting an understanding of himself.

He loses his whetstone while he's fighting for Hawke. They're on their way to the top of Sundermount when it happens, having to take a new route after yet another mudslide, they're picking their way up along a river trail with Merrill leading the way when they are waylaid by raiders. Why there are raiders this far up a fairly neglected path he doesn't know: incompetence, maybe, or attempting to retrieve cargo left and lost in caverns sealed up by the recent significant shifts of stone and dirt and foliage that resulted from seasonal storms.

One of their many enemies gets the better of him because this enemy is a rogue who's both blessed and cursed by a quick hand. The rogue feints left and snatches the satchel from Fenris' waist. As punishment he takes the edge of Fenris' blade into his side, and in a burst of showering crimson goes down, but not before he gets an upperhand. The rogue tosses the satchel away from him with all his dying strength. Watching it arc away like a lesser falling star, Fenris experiences a horrendous writhing in his chest. The rage, the blackness, the pain that they have planted in him is alive and active.

Why can't he have anything good?

But he's wrong to despair so thoroughly. Hawke—observant, astounding, caring—Hawke notices everything that has happened. When the fight is over she is the first to say something about it.

While wiping a splotch of blood off her cheek—her robe is covered in sizeable spatters, not likely salvageable—she looks at him and says, 'Would you like me to retrieve that?' Her eyes as he remembers now them are shining in the sun.

'It's mine,' he says, securing his broadsword in its holster.

'I know. That's why I want to get it for you.'

He grunts. He can easily hear the rushing of the river from here. Kirkwall isn't the coldest place in the world, and the noontime light reflects with a sharp natural brilliance among the rocks and wavelets, but it _is_  nearly spring, that water will not be comfortable. A cascade nearby slapping into its self-sculpted basin is a dun trundle that pools in his ears and muffles most other sounds.

Why does he allow it? Why does he allow her to step into the river for him?

For one thing, this isn't the first time he has allowed to her to help him, nor it is one of the first opportunities she has taken up to offer him aid he considered unnecessary. She has helped him mend his clothing and clean up the worst of the devastation left in his house by their intrusion and subsequent seizing of it. She has also called him a friend.

And there is one other thing he doesn't think she could possibly know: he isn't a competent swimmer.

'It won't take longer than a couple of seconds,' she says, carefully kneeling down to lay her staff on the ground, then glancing over her shoulder to see which bodies Isabela is looting. She gives the former captain an approving tilt of her head at the twirling show of a fine pilfered dagger.

'Be careful,' is what, after gesturing with his right hand, he says to her.

'Don't worry about it, Fenris. It's not a big deal.' A ringing laugh fills up the day.

He then watches her as she begins to go about her business. Her staff and bag set down, she sets about disrobing with a solemnity as if giving a salute. This is of course not plainly directed at him—her eyes do not stay with his. That is to say they don't stay on his, though they are surely tracking along the same parts of her that his are. There are her emerging shoulders, her elbows, the swell of her chest springing from her pushed down collar, the fullness of her hips sliding out of the heavy green and gold cloth as she finally slips free from her outermost layer.

She's in her shift and smalls but doesn't stand there. She walks down into the river and disappears. The last sight he has of her is the trailing ends of her hair tumbling under an eddy.

For some time she remains vanished. Her other companions, Isabela and the blood mage, take notice of her absence but don't react yet because they see her belongings and clothing set tellingly close to the bank of the river. So she went for a swim—Hawke has done odder things.

Fenris, for his part, stands there. Such a quiet descends upon him, but no peace, though the blackness wrapped and worming around his sternum has receded. The light sparkling off the surface of the water is hot in his eyes, impressing heat upon him, the roiling white lines raking over his scalp like fingers.

He doesn't know how much time passes. Only that these seconds are stretched and forever outsized in his recollection, or his dreams, of them, that these handful of beats of his own heart couldn't have ever prepared him for what would happen next.

She comes back to him with streams of glittering icy water pouring from her black hair and over her pale, pale skin. The flimsy and criminally cheap fabric of her soaked remaining clothing clingingly reveals more than it conceals—and just then he would rather touch this than the finest silks or velvets. Striding up to him, shaking already and lips tinged blue, she places his soaked satchel into his hands, and, so very close to him, their propinquity for personal reasons and not because they are in the heat of battle, she looks him directly in his eyes and says, 'Besides, if there's something you want, then it's worth putting a little bit of effort into getting it. That's part of the fun.'

Then she parts from him to dress in the robe she hates anyway and will replace soon enough. She leaves him without having any way of knowing just how furiously she will blossom within him, this despite how fallow the fields of his private life are, how unripe any of his burgeoning sexual fantasies. This wet image of her competency and caring are a part of the beginning of what will lead to her becoming an indelible feature of his personhood.

As for the whetstone, he keeps it with him to this day. Whenever he palms it for comfort he experiences a rush of validating memories.

.

When he woke up the next morning he remembered the outcome as he had seen it: in the end the mages had done the right thing and agreed to take the Dalish man and his children along with them for one more day of travel. Then they had departed from the tavern for their campsite.

And the ex-templars had followed. Fenris knew unquestionably the right thing to do.

He left, too, and took care of this looming problem before it could descend upon them. Even drunk he was more than capable of handling it and not leaving any traces of his involvement. Then he went back in and slept, and in the morning took off straight for Skyhold after purchasing enough provisions for an uninterrupted trip.

He also burnt the letters that he had received—the two longer ones and the last one he reckoned was more of a note than anything—in his rented room's stove. He had the idea that this would help keep her safe now that he was coming closer.

.

_To Fenris—_

_I know you appreciate directness so I will tell you this: you should come to Skyhold. Why the change of heart, you're certainly wondering. Well, it's not Hawke telling you this, it's me, so this isn't her going against her better judgement. Hawke is not in danger, not any longer, I can assure you at least of that. She's safe at Skyhold. We—that is the greater part of the Inquisition's army—are headed to the Western Approach in Orlais soon so I don't know if I will be around to give you the grand tour or do what I need to to make this easier for you._

_I said Hawke isn't in danger but I don't think you'll be happy when you see her. That's all I can say here. It's better if you see her for yourself. Then you'll understand why it's best not to risk disclosing too much information about her current condition. I know that you will understand what I mean as soon as you see her._

_Fenris, I'm sorry._

_You can kill me if you want when you next see me. I've always thought that fisting thing of yours was an interesting way to go. I imagine it hurts but it's not the worst thing that could happen to a person._

— _Varric Tethras_

**_..._ **

 

 


	3. iii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris makes it to Skyhold.

At some point on his fifth straight day of travel Fenris had come to accept the inevitable he'd only been putting off until now. He had to put on his shoes. He went off the road to do this, pushing a little ways into the forest so he could find sufficient shelter to set up a temporary campsite. He hadn't needed to until this point but now the snow that was falling, though sparse, was starting to stick. He could make out individual flakes as he walked, each infinitesimally small, but all a part of the definite descent of something massive and amorous and abominably deadly. There wasn't even a millimetre on the ground yet, but he could imagine the entire world ensnared in white—already in the course of his journey had he witnessed an engulfing mist that sometimes didn't lift until well after noon. At which time even then the world wasn't completely free from oppression because, though a starkly blue early winter sky was visible at last, there was a diminished quality about the yearned-for light that finally fell upon it. Perhaps the memory of the pall that surely would return reduced his enjoyment of, or limited the extent to which he could bask in, these few bright hours. Whatever the case, this odd lack of true light was one of the reasons he was beginning to experience a chill which he could not shake. It was nesting into his very bones.

While he was off the of the road Fenris found a spot under an evergreen with some relatively low hanging branches. They offered him enough cover to be sure that he would not be snowed on, as long as no breeze picked up and swayed the falling flakes from their natural vertical trajectories. He thought about starting a fire, to warm up something for a mid-day meal since he already had stopped, but he decided against it and instead set about just putting on his shoes. After putting aside his blade and settling his back against the reddish rutted bark, one at a time, Fenris pulled the black leather boots out of his pack he had placed between his drawn up knees. He set them down beside him, pushed his pack away so that he had enough room, and then brought his left leg in towards himself. Shifting his back just a touch, he pulled his foot inwards until it was stretched and he could get a proper look at the bottom of it.

On the instep, he traced with the tip of his thumb a particularly hardened callus, then he trailed, in one slow circle, around the swell of his heel, where his worst calluses were, before finally resting his thumb into the slight depression beneath the knob of bone protruding half-way up his ankle. As he rolled his foot back towards his shin his hard-used muscles fanned out. A little bit of the strain of the last few days relaxed when he bent it forward again and extended his toes and wiggled them freely one last time before encasing them in animal hide. Lingering a moment longer, he thought about unhooking his stirrups and rolling up his leggings, but decided against it. The extra layer, however thin, would be providing welcomed insulation.

He then put his foot into his boot, using both hands afterwards to pull it up to its full height to stand just a little bit above the thickest part of his calf. Then he did the same with the other foot before lacing his boots up; this part was easier for him, and required no thought at all as, without having to look, his fingers could guide the ties into the eyelryd, weave and pull and tighten, and finish with a crisp bow. He was practised in unseen the motions of binding and loosing the front of his trousers. As well as perfected in the art of doing and undoing for others who required him to be quick about it.

After securing himself in these new heavy carapaces, Fenris let some of the tension out of his sitting body. Without him holding his back straight, he leant against the tree so that the knotted scales of the bark pressed upon his back, hard enough that he could feel faint impressions through the layers of his armour and cloak. Particularly he could feel it along the curved line of his spine where there was a vertical opening, boarded by thick golden lines on both sides, instead of a proper seam.

He rested his head against the tree too and, chin tilted upwards, the tips of his ears nearly touching the rough bark, for a moment, he closed his eyes to the sight of Ferelden around him. Once the black blank canvas had descended he was far away. He saw both luminous and shaded visions: the Waking sea seen at sunset, right before he turned his back to it to head back to Kirkwall; thousands of lit candles glinting off an assiduously polished floor as others spoke; particles, day and night, filtering through the holes in his ceiling downwards into perpetual gloom; a losing streak in Wicked Grace that had exacerbated his thirst, the results of which had included, at some point, his back arched against a filthy but familiar wall; a fairly frayed and fragmented, though still precious, memory recovered when writhing against red satin sheets. He saw two children living under an unwavering sun.

Then he opened eyes, curled his toes, and, balancing his weight on one fist he pressed into the cold ground, got up to start moving. He had been dwelling long enough.

When he rejoined the traffic on the road Fenris made a quick note of those who were around headed in the same direction. For the next few hours, until he stopped for the day, those who were nearby now and kept a similar pace to his would be his fellow travellers on the road. Not that he would consider them in any way his travelling companions, but he couldn't deny an immediate sort of feeling of connection, of consideration, of course wariness, kindled within him as he observed. Those who would be keeping him company included a romantically involved couple of rouges, a caravan of merchants whom he figured might outpace him if their horses didn't seem so tired already, and a single but competent warrior who carried herself in a way that obviously conveyed past training as a templar. For a quarter of an hour he continued without pulling up his hood. Eventually the snow quit falling, but his feet never got too warm.

They did, however, start to hurt. He had, despite his desire to be away, and on his way, managed to purchase for himself boots that were the appropriate width and length. As uncouth and grating as the cobbler may have been with his questioning he evidently had been adequate enough at his trade to pick out, for his customer to try on, pre-made pairs of shoes that would properly fit just by the sight of feet that were presented to him. Fenris hadn't wanted the peddler to touch him—feet are sensitive, after all, superbly so, containing the most bundles of nerves of any place on the skin, but also, for Fenris, extra sensitive because of the chance that the white lines and flourishes savaged long ago into his skin might ignite in a blaze of pain and light if so much as an pinkie brushed unwarrantly against him. There were as well so many delicate and shifting tendons under his skin, and the thought of how easily he could be hobbled made him even more aware of what could happen if others were let too near.

But why his feet were starting to suffer now was entirely his fault. He was the one who had forgotten to purchase something else: socks.

What he wouldn't do for a pair now, as he, not quite limping yet, could wince and bristle at every chafe if he had even a little bit less of indomitable self-control. There wasn't much more than two hours remaining before he reached his intended stop for the night if his estimations were correction. It was hard to judge, with the sun still absent from the sky, veiled behind the clustered bloated bodies of lazing clouds, exactly what the time was. Nor was he infallible, but when he had been avoiding pursuers he had learnt how to have a fairly reliable sense of these things, so he was pretty sure he wasn't too far off when guessing about two hours. His years spent running weren't a complete waste of time. As in Kirkwall, he had, in the course of them, accomplished more than he realised he should give himself credit for.

Fenris figured that he could make it to his destination on time as long as he didn't allow himself to slow too badly. His skin felt as if it might slough off by then, but he wasn't unaccustomed to bleeding a little. And, when he got to where he was going, he could figure something out for sure. The solution would be simple—cloths, rags, maybe some bedsheets he could convince the owners were actually soiled beyond use. He noticed filth but it didn't bother him. He found gross opulence much more unsettling than a smudge of dirt or grime which could always be washed off.

He thought, too, of possibly stopping and tearing off the bottom of his cloak and wrapping that around his feet. The mud staining it hardly made a difference. Though it would be unpleasantly cold against his skin when the grit rubbed into the paunchy swelling of his blisters. A torn cloak could also make him appear as though he had been travelling more, or longer, than he actually had. He wasn't sure if that would make him more or less prone to harassment and assault than he already was—though, so far, he had yet to be bothered by anyone, and he was aware that both the pommel and tip of his blade were silhouetted by his grey cloak where the two ends gently swayed in time with his step.

He was contemplating turning his cape into a casualty when he was finally approached by someone. The ex-templar, he figured, whom he had noticed had been keeping exactly twenty paces behind him and on the lookout for something for about an hour now. Apparently she had found what she was looking for and it had something to do with him. An ambush, maybe, she could be one member of a group who had pieced together the puzzle of his identity from the various cues he couldn't realistically conceal. His tattoos, the weapon he would actually need to protect himself, the shade of his skin contrasted to the shocking white of his hair. Despite the hood drawn up around his head he wasn't invisible. Or unrecognisable.

She jogged up within two paces of him, and thus she kept her distance for now. They continued on with the same rhythm to their gait: a disciplined warrior stepping determinedly towards a clearly defined goal. She said, 'Hail, fellow traveller.'

Fenris wasn't familiar with too many Fereldan accents, not nearly yet, so he wasn't sure what would be a reasonable guess as to her place of likely origin. She was, however, clearly not Orlesian or a Marcher so he assumed Fereldan all the same. There was a slight glide to her vowels that he thought he recognised from the Fereldans he knew, though theirs were elongated by a beat or two in comparison.

He did not look at her. 'What is it?'

There was a slight change in her next step—a falter? He wasn't sure, and still didn't look back, and figured it might have been because she was expecting at the very least a greeting in return. But at least he had acknowledged her. Evidently that was enough.

'I see that you're in some pain. That you have been for a while—I've been walking behind you, and I saw it start a while ago. Are you okay?'

'It's nearly evening.'

'And not what I'm concerned about.'

That—more than words she spoke but the way in which she delivered them, self-assured she could provide some kind of needed assistance—was what finally caused him to turn his head towards her. In response she smiled and closed the distance between them, and then she realised with whom she was speaking.

So his hood had been enough to obscure his identity from a distance, at least. What would have helped him more is if Varric's book hadn't sold and circulated so well, but that wasn't something that anyone could do anything about now. And no-one, including the author, had predicted such success. That the material was just too interesting to a people who wanted a human explanation as to why they all were suddenly on the brink of an unholy war.

During her staggered response Fenris took the opportunity to stare openly into her face. A human, obviously, with reddish-brown hair and flat brown eyes that reminded him of a gentle ruminant, only this would have to be a deeply haggard ruminant he was looking at. The perpetual twitching around her left eye confirmed for him that she was an ex-templar—it was one of the milder symptoms of lyrium withdrawal he had seen. It also confirmed for him that she had learnt the focus that would be required for the performance of her duties. Which was a focus she had now turned towards preserving her own life against the relentless harrowing of the graver symptoms that would have otherwise stripped her personality away.

Her nose too, was gentle, but too small to balance out a face that was so circular and broad. Altogether her features gave him the impression of a mild cow. Perhaps if she were narrower about the face with eyes a little more intricately hued, she could have been reminiscent of a fox. She reminded him in general of his notions of what bucolic Fereldan life probably was like.

He did not, for the moment, perceive any reason why he couldn't entertain her concern. 'Do you have any extra socks,' was what he said.

Though she clearly knew who he was, she did not yet use his name, she didn't presume to know him, and said, 'No. But, look over there—it looks like something happened, and that there were some victims. I don't think they care about their feet so much anymore. They might be able to provide what you need.'

Fenris did as he was bid, and he looked over to where a few bodies lay cluttering up the shallow ditch alongside the road. He stopped walking. It was hard to tell exactly what had happened; until he took a few steps closer he couldn't see that these bodies had been purposefully but unceremoniously dumped on the side of the road for someone else to take care of. Probably those who had dumped them had no mages in their midst, and no other means to start a fire, or perhaps hadn't had the time to spare it would take to construct a pyre they thought would be strong enough to meet requirements.

The woman by his side walked over to the bodies and began perusing their belongings. He joined her. She found what she was looking for for him: all the boots were long gone, as a matter of course, but sometimes socks are left behind because they aren't needed as replacements of better quality and would be too redundant to be bothered with. He knelt down and had the choice between the feet of a human man and a human woman. He took from the former, for, though he was an elf, he was a tall one, and he had no reason to bother wasting time with things that he knew would be too dainty for him.

The socks that he did take were woollen and may have once been white, or maybe had always been grey. They had the beginnings of a hole over the toes of the left foot, and would need to be darned. He could take care of that later; he knew much less about how to repair them than he knew about how to effectively strip a useful thing from a corpse. Once he had accomplished removing them he started on the process of taking off his shoes, moving to one side to focus on his task while she set about rearranging the bodies into a more neat and cohesive and flammable pile.

She didn't need his help dragging the most sizeable man, which surprised him a little. She managed on her own and with such an alacrity that Fenris understood without having to be told that she was used to performing this public service by now. Once the bodies were most efficiently arrayed, the ex-templar stood and waited until he was standing again. While he was securing his sword back to his back, he said, 'Do you think they'll burn?'

'Probably. I don't think it will snow anymore. And it didn't snow enough earlier to make them too wet.' She looked up for a moment, getting in a good gaze at the sky. Then she looked back down again; the flakes that had fallen hadn't melted so she had brushed off what little white stuff was dusting the cadavers. 'In any case, I think they'll burn enough. They don't have to completely be ashes to be unusable. And they shouldn't be eaten by wild animals either. That's not—that's not what we let happen if we can prevent it.'

Beside her now, his hood still down, knowing that she was speaking so much about burial customs for his benefit, he nodded. This was something he was aware of. Though he was, according to Varric's book, from Tevinter, he wasn't unfamiliar with southern Andrastian customs by this point—nor was he not observing a few of them himself. But he felt like this was too much to share with a total stranger. He did appreciate the aid but that didn't change anything, or enough, to make him feel impelled to reveal such a part of himself. It was also possible that she might read too much into it, him telling her about this. She could make too much of a deal of being shared with, she who had lived her youth devoted to the tenants he was only beginning to follow by comparison might feel compelled to talk lessons with a brother-in-faith. There was no need for a sermon. To invite one.

He simply helped her set the bodies on fire. They walked away together before the stench could rise, but he needn't have stayed to find it filling his nostrils and his imagination. Burning flesh—he smelt it and felt it happening to him, his soul searing apart even though he wasn't sure it was actually anywhere under his skin.

'My name's Lilly, by the way.'

'Fenris.'

'Nice to meet you.'

'And you.'

.

 

For the few remaining days it took to reach the vicinity of Skyhold the two of them travelled together. Lilly was able to pay her own way, and so didn't present any obstacles to his plan. There were only helpful suggestions from her: she kept them off several stretches of road that not even the Inquisition could secure, as well as offering an alternative place to stay that had a much more ample supply of the semi-famous local brew. They slept in separate rooms and in the mornings she was always ready to go when he was, and they exchanged greetings without anything more meaningful or subtle transpiring between their gestures and looks. She was, from what he could hear through the walls, just as prone to nightmares as him. And though hers were much more vivid, they both experienced fear that lingered long after waking, because many of the causes of their suffering lie woven into the unalterable fabric of unyielding reality. The Fade was horrible and dangerous, but at least the horrors of it could be corrupted from time to time, by profuse forms of sympathy and good feeling when more pleasant memories surfaced and suffused their dreams.

They made good time together. They also learnt a little about each other when, during the vast spans of unoccupied travelling time, they sporadically shared details between the occasional discussion of what was happening to the world. Fenris learnt that he had been right and that she was indeed Fereldan, had always been in Ferelden, and was now joining the Inquisition. She had been inspired by the tale of the Commander whose trails were very much like her own. For her part, Lilly learnt that a good deal of what was in the tale of the Champion was closer to the truth than the Chantry would otherwise have people believe.

He did, however, not share much more beyond what she already knew about him. When it was obvious she wanted to ask more about the lovers' sub-plot he shook his head and said that he had shared all that he could. That was a true detail of their relationship—there had indeed been no sweeping involved. The things that they had done had been much steadier, much slower, than a brisk sweep across the floor. Even after a battle, covered completely in filth and shit and gore, he had taken his time to express how grateful he was to be by her side. She, too, had taken her time with him, but he was always certain to make sure she understood at least twice how much she meant to him and how glad he was of her survival.

As for the three years when there wasn't anything at all, well. There was nothing of interest there so it had been omitted. Like everything else that wasn't shared, it was consigned to more private and privileged knowledge, not public, unlike the scarlet scarf he still wore wound around his gauntlet. He showed it to her when she asked about the favour.

Lilly was also able to offer Fenris a salve for his wounded feet. They healed soon enough and by the time they had reached snow-devoured valleys he was walking with even steps. His feet, encased inside their hard shells, made incisive footprints and were warm.

There were no clear borders or signposts marking out Inquisition territory, but Fenris was certain within an hour that they had properly passed into it. The first signs of a sprawl of refugees were telling. He saw tents, and plenty of vendors who had just arrived with plans to move farther in with their wares for sale. He saw those who wished to be new recruits taking their leave from their families. He saw humans, elves, dwarves and, with some surprised, Qunari. Undoubtedly Tal-Vashoth to a man, to be sure, but so far members of this towering race had been a rarer sight here in Ferelden than they were in the Fade.

Fenris and Lilly had walked for nearly another hour before they reached the main settlement of refugees nestled in the depths of an icy vale. At a first sight, Fenris didn't understand how so many people could possibly be surviving so close together in this barren land. And yet there seemed to be no conflict over scarce resources; everyone had what they needed and didn't want what wasn't theirs. Nearly unbelievable. Perhaps it was another story at night—which he would see, he was sure, he didn't know how long he might be here but it never took long for the truth of a place to reveal itself. They were in the shadow of a mountain now. He looked up, he saw the fortress, and a single glance was enough to understand that what he was seeing was  _old_  in a certain way. More than just the age of the stones, there was a thing about this place that lingered and dwelt and lived still despite the various inhabitants and the long spans between them. There were things in Tevinter that shared this quality, but these things were often either crumbling or decaying along with everything else around them, as the magic holding things together rotted away a little more each year.

Skyhold was different. The magic here—which he was sure there was, even this far away, he could smell the traces of it before there were enough to make his skin tingle—was in no way eroded or diminished. He had the distinct impression of something that was waiting.

For what, he almost certainly didn't want to know. Lilly did not seem affected by this impression in any way. She was impressed by the sheer number of those who had been drawn in by the increasingly powerful pull of this literally-on-the-fringes-of-civilisation institution. She was in awe of the amount of lives that had fled willingly into the grasp of the hellish Frostbacks.

While they were still in the blue-black reach of the mountain's shadow, a scout came up to them and approached Fenris with a noticeable nod of his head. He didn't use Fenris' name, but he was known to the scout. Even expected, evidently.

'Follow me this way. I'm to take you up to the hold proper,' the scout explained.

Lilly gave a quick nod of her head. 'Important, you are. I can't imagine how precious space is up there now.'

Without having to be told anything more Fenris understood that he would be taken to Varric's rooms—or, more likely, room. Which was well enough. He had, upon sight of the scout, wondered if he shouldn't have burnt those letters he'd received. But he wouldn't need to prove his identity. Thanks be to his markings, and his friend's lurid descriptions, no doubt.

As for Lilly, he turned to her and had only his hand to offer. She accepted it, and shook his hand with a grip that would be sure around the hilt of a blade. For a moment, he almost regretted that he hadn't had the chance to see her in action; there hadn't been time to spare to spar with her, though there also hadn't been any occasion for them to need to defend themselves. He looked into her eyes and said, 'Take care of yourself.'

'And you do the same! Honestly, says the guy who didn't have socks when I met him.' Though she simpered and then scoffed, he could see that she appreciated his thought for her. She added, 'Perhaps I'll see you around? If you ever spend time with us lowly foot soldiers.'

'We shall see. I don't intend not to.'

'Right. I intend to make it up there one day.'

'I'm sure you will. You're determined enough.'

She turned and walked away, and he headed after the scout in another direction. As they ascended and drew closer to the hold, the air certainly grew chillier. And thicker with magic—he could nearly describe it as resonant with the aftershocks of a cast spell. It was possible that something evidently cataclysmic—judging just by its perceived vestiges—had indeed happened somewhere near here. There were, he noted, a great deal of mages around. Nearly a swarm of them. The thought of disaster unfolding here wasn't far-fetched.

 

.

 

A place older than Tevinter: an idea that the stones surrounding him, dense as a dream, impressed upon him, and he wondered. To be sure, there had been plenty of things to exist before the empire, but how many had survived these gulfs of time unimaginably expansive to a mortal mind? Only when rendered with the rational logic of numbers could such a concept be grasped, but, even when quantified, it meant next to nothing in relation to such a short life. Because, in comparison, such a short life was nothing. To understand that was horrifying. As for an immortal mind—which, unlike the things which it saw that could and did erode away, didn't diminish—such vastness was unremarkable. It could just be the blink of an eye, or a period of sleep.

It wouldn't be the passage of time which would be remarkable to such a being, it would be the changes that occurred between one particular instance and the next. Time passes, but it's not what's altered by its inexorable course. Even to a wizened mind the sight of what was once stone, crushed now into sand, dissolved like so much foam, would be a potential anxious lesson.

There could be only one exception, only one thing that could mean no change would occur, and it was an unnatural one: when magic touched a place and changed it, this curse could make the place and its aspects immune to the natural laws of entropy. This was what had to have happened to Skyhold. Though there evidently had needed to be repairs and magic wasn't preventing the need for regular maintenance to make this hold habitable, the state of this place was as old as the magic that had once been cast upon it. This place had never had the chance to die and so become fertile again for other purposes. So far it had remained unwholesomely from the brink of marcescence.

As they emerged into sunlight from the passage that had brought them upward, Fenris was amazed by how close the sky seemed. They were rimmed in by frozen mountains. They were hemmed in by the heavens. The lyrium in his skin was lured to sting and sing but had remained silent so far—the phantasm of magic he was smelling had yet to manifest as anything more substantial than a quivering gossamer impression shot through the air and earth and everything in between. Which was nearly maddening, for Fenris, because the atmosphere was now teeming with the caustic scent of it.

He followed the scout, and, despite their altitude, he trod upon soft dirt rather than harsh slush. It was curious, but welcome, and he could only imagine how awful the ground would be if, as he had expected, it were the hateful mixture of snow, ice, and mud it could become when trodden upon by thousands of feet. He saw puddles on their way towards the stairs that would take them farther up to a walkway and the main hall, and the surfaces of these puddles were momentarily corrugated by a passing breeze, but not once did he see a single glint of ice. There were in fact several new tree sprouts maturing into saplings. Which was certainly something. He wouldn't have expected to see new growth in such a frigid and strangely bewitched place, and, again, he was proven wrong. Though it didn't bother him too much, he wasn't the sort of person who defined himself solely on his convictions. He was other things.

'Was this place always called Skyhold?' Fenris asked the scout who was still guiding him. He was legitimately curious; now that his nerves were settling he was interested in learning more about what was around him. Maybe he could find something that would help him explain the pique he was experiencing, and relieve his sense that he was being haunted.

'I'm afraid I don't know. I've heard some rumours but I'm not sure how we even found this place for certain.'

Fenris couldn't help himself—he felt his left brow slightly rise and curve in askance. Miscommunication in a group this large: that seemed potentially lethal, even though this was probably a minor detail, how exactly they had been led to this location, something that wasn't vital to daily operations once they had been successfully settled. He agreed with the idea that not knowing your history wasn't fatal.

Still, he wondered. He took another look around and then realised something else varied from what he had envisioned he would find here, but this deviation from what was expected was away from something he had actually been told to expect because Varric knew how he felt around crowds. They reminded him of Tevinter, what he could remember of it, and of all the jostling chambers overstuffed with too many sycophants he had to bodily stand in the way of, of all these times in his life he always would find most despicable. Being bound in by too many indifferent people on all sides reminded him of the throes of unbreakable bondage.

But, rounding a corner and now with a clear view of a relatively empty training yard below, Fenris realised that there were many fewer people here than there should have been. There were plenty of refugees and new recruits, but where was the army?

The scout had an answer: 'The bulk of the forces are away in Orlais for a siege on the Grey Warden fortress of Adamant. Those who remain now are just a garrison.' Which is something that Varric had also told him in writing. To be fair.

Fenris lingered for a moment, looking over the expanse of this eerie fortress, to the mass of tents occupying many miles of unkind land laid out below and beyond. On the jagged horizon regular mountain mist was transmuted to an opalescent splendour by the light of the setting sun. This was a peculiar sight; not one, he knew, to forget soon.

And he couldn't deny that he knew exactly what was awaiting him. After coming all this way the extra seconds barely drew out the time before their reunion, but they still were very painful. And yet in them he could find the expansive space to hope that _maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe_ , this other thing would be just as different from his expectations as everything else had so far proven to be. It was possible. She could have just been sick, still sick now, and, though frail, able to make a recovery. He would willingly nurse her back to health. He would exult in the glow of wellness he had restored after however long it would take to bring her back to him.

He hoped that he would find her whole and alive, and that her magic, though nearly lost in such a lustrously mystical place as this, would thrum under his skin and mingle with his blood and make his engraved lyrium whisper about danger turned miraculously into love.

He hoped. She had taught him how to do that.

And he shivered. It hadn't escaped his notice that the scout had yet to say anything about, or to give any indication of, leading him to meet the Champion of Kirkwall, the real living wellspring of rebellion that had roiled across the entirety of the world. The scout simply did his job and led Fenris on when he was ready to continue moving forwards.

 

.

 

One of the few times when he let her down he has yet to forgive himself for. And he doesn't foresee himself ever being able to do so, because, unlike the other times which he wasn't able to come through for her to the fullest extent of his capabilities and intentions, he has never been able to see anyway in which she herself might be called culpable of setting herself up for disappointment in this case. It's his fault that he had failed. This was when he had been _kidnapped_.

Such shame there, the term implying that he was helpless as a child who could be nabbed of all things. Him, Fenris, the deadly bodyguard who could leave behind him a trail of corpses fit to block off the tallest of passageways. Him, Fenris, who had slaughtered dozens of Fog Warriors at the word of a master whom he had hated more than himself.

It would have been laughable, had his weakness, his inability to defend _himself_ , not also endangered her life.

They come for him early one evening when he's just getting ready to fix himself dinner. Later on he will be taking by a delivery of newly wicked candles to the Chantry so that he can catch the better part of an evening service delivered by a particularly devote sister, whose apt quotes from scripture have so far helped him understand some of the more flagrant vagaries of the version of the Chanticles that have been accepted as canonical in the south. He's no scholar, and he can make no pretensions of knowing enough to attempt an exegesis of northern and southern Andrastian texts, the fact is that though he doesn't know much yet about what the white Divine believes he knows even less about what the black Divine does.

But Fenris is learning. That's the important part. And through sacred lecture he's discovered new aspects of what's worth listening to.

He tucks his ribbon bookmark against the page he has just finished. Running the tip of his finger along the smooth whiteness of the margin, Fenris traces out in the clean empty space some of his ideas he would like to add to the text. If only this book were not so beautiful already in its bound and finely printed perfection. He closes the cover and, mindful of the fine gilt on the edges of the pages and tooled into the soft red leather of the spine, wraps it in an oilcloth, so that the chaos rampant in the place he dwells cannot corrupt the rich extravagance that gives him such pleasure to call his own.

Then he places his book in its place amongst its brothers and sisters, and he's so absorbed in this ritual that he doesn't notice until it's too late that he's not alone. The wind is blowing—it howls through the main room with its massive gaps of caved-in ceiling open to the elements. A great cacophony of sound, once shut out by a heavy closed wooden door, that now blasts along with them into his room that contains most of the little he considers to make up his life. For a moment he can't believe how loud it is: this intrusion into what is his, this group of marauders defiling his threshold, utter foolishness on their part, displaying a level of directness not even Danarius had dared. How stupid they are, he thinks as he snarls and springs towards his blade he has recently sharpened. Surely no great strategy can be backing up such thorough foolhardiness.

And he's correct in this assessment of them. They're utter fools.

But that doesn't mean that there aren't enough of them to overpower him.

They come in two waves, and Fenris is familiar enough by now with fighting templars, Hawke hasn't always avoided clashing with them even if she's always tried to be measured in her dealings with those who for many years could have forced her into the Gallows as a righteous cause. At least they could have when she wasn't the Champion because, though while being ludicrously wealthy offered her a measure of protection, until she became a political hero she wasn't above the reasonable assumption that she was a danger to the populace at large.

Thanks be to Hawke he's able to defend himself against the first and second of his attackers with ease and a liquid lethality that carries him behind the largest of the templars whom he takes down with a crouch and a deft swipe of his leg; he crushes a skull with a pommel strike. Then he leaps up and takes his blade in hand and swings, cutting through iron and bone without snagging his blade on any hinges or locks.

He steps backwards, balances, and prepares to strike again when the first blast of magic smacks into his head and destabilises him. For precious seconds he's dizzy and disoriented. He dances around hands that reach for him and he realises two important, though puzzling, things, and he can't be sure that he's right until he's had the crucial confirmation he needs.

One thing is easy enough at least. He whips his head around and sees several staves aimed his way. Mages—fighting with templars, working in tandem, seemingly to abduct him if any of this, including his second notion, can be believed.

He snarls again and rushes the mages closest to him. The world gives a vertiginous tilt as he reaches them but his aim is true from sheer force of will and practise. Before they can counter with a conjured barrier or glyph he chops through one of them bringing his number of sure victims up to three.

Now he falls back before he can be retaliated against. He's out of range of the mages, and the templars aren't close enough to grab him, and if he really needs to he can phase through their grasp by aid of the lyrium howling in his skin.

As he only does in fights, he draws himself to his full height and realigns his posture to his centre of gravity. No way will he allow this motley band of apostates and mutinous templars to subdue him. What a notion! He has no idea why or how he's come to face this particular situation, but it's outrageous, and simply not something that he cares to answer to.

Even Danarius had treated him more roughly than they are now, for years, concerned only with taking his skin, giving no thought to sparing his life, or so he believed. Fenris hadn't figured at first that Danarius might be long-sighted enough to realise that, more humiliating than displaying his recovered hide as a trophy, the thing that would have obliterated Fenris completely was forcing him back to his side where his master could snuff out the last of him as easily as crushing a beetle into the dirt.

When they come for him again they come from multiple sides. This isn't the the best situation to have allowed—he should have kept his back to at least one wall, though it's easy enough to regain this advantage by ghosting through the man behind him and snagging his heart along the way. It costs him a moment to dispose of this sleek still-beating mass. It plops to the floor with a squelch that testifies to how fresh this organ still is. This brings him up to four kills.

Only Fenris hasn't been paying enough to attention. Even without an elaborate plan they're enough to take him down because they aren't looking to expose _his_ weakness, they using him as part of a plan to expose another's weakness. The fight he puts up is pointless, the show of his supremacy irrelevant; they need only distract him long enough for a mage to skewer herself and collect the requisite power to sacrifice to carry out their purpose.

And this has been achieved. The blood mage casts her spell and an unfathomable sleep is woven around Fenris and swells behind his eyes like a rotten fruit. He will be gone before he or his sword hits the ground, before any one of these cowards can properly lay a hand on him, but still he has the power to hiss, _mage._

Because of course, it's just a matter of course, this has happened. How could he have expected anything different he wonders, caught deeply still in this viscous and sickly thought as he awakens slowly in what he registers as the shelter of her arms. She has his head cradled so he cannot see her face for the sun shining into his eyes, not until he shifts slightly to turn against her and slip into the shadow she casts. Her look is exactly as he would have imagined it before moving: utterly repentant, ashamed of how she has allowed her lover to be used. Not ashamed of him, no, never that, it's shame for her inability to protect even that which is most dear.

What good these abilities, he knows she wonders, if she can't even do this? But he reaches to touch her shoulder and assure her that this isn't her fault. Regardless of her powers, this just is what it is: his own inability to stay guarded against magic when all his life should have taught him better. Feel the sublime evidence of her magic which he has not fended off, even now making his skin tingle and warm with invisible sparks that are generated from mere propinquity.

He's truly comforted when she says that this won't happen again, he loves her and wants her to have his back. And he also means it, too, when he thinks the same thing that she's saying because he won't allow it. Such is his resolution: be wary when she isn't near because he could never bear to see her this wrecked again. He won't be the cause that uncovers such raw vulnerability a second time.

The furrows around her weary eyes, already deep from so many other losses, are digging too deep into her for him to consider being comfortable. He reaches up for her, he speaks for her, he kisses her for her reassurance. She trembles. And what an unspeakable horror has passed them both by.

Resting her forehead against his, she exhales away the thought of having to live without him. This breath is clammy against his face, it dispels the residue of the enchantment remaining in his pores.

 

**...**


End file.
